Xanadu
by stefanie bean
Summary: John Locke's small group carves out a life in the abandoned Barracks despite Locke's increasing instability, while Hurley and Claire get to know each other better as they watch the glam-rock cult favorite, "Xanadu." Set during Eggtown (4x04.)


**Xanadu **

**(takes place during "Eggtown," 4x04)**

When John Locke walked into Kate Austen and Claire Littleton's house without knocking, Kate's stomach clenched into a cold hard fist ready to strike at anyone who came near. Wayne used to walk in on her like that. Wayne, with his cigarette stench and whiskey breath, who would come into her bedroom at two in the morning, waking her out of a sound sleep. "Katie," he would whisper as he blew a stink like a barroom floor into her face. "Katie, let's talk." She would roll over, pretending not to hear him, and most of the time he would go away. Sometimes he wouldn't, but she couldn't think about that right now.

There were more important things to worry about. For one, Locke had a gun, and knives. Earlier that day, as Kate and Claire had taken their morning coffee on the front porch, Locke had stormed out of his house, slamming the door so hard the windows rattled. Claire hadn't thought much of it at the time, but Kate had sat rigid with anxiety, and the small hairs on her arms stood straight up. An hour or so later, Locke threw one knife after another into the post which held up the front porch of his house. The ringing metal clank sounded in Kate's ears like a death-knell. Today the knife shivered in wood, tomorrow, who knows, maybe it stuck in you. At least baby Aaron was tucked out of sight in the bedroom next to Claire's bed, snug in a plastic wash basket.

When Locke first walked in, Claire stood rigid in the corner of the room, her face fixed in a blank stare. _Doesn't she get what's going on? _ Kate wondered. But Claire's deer in the headlights stance was to keep as much of Locke's attention off of her as possible. She tried to look small and inconspicuous while Locke strolled around their small living room, pushing his face into Kate's, gazing across the room as if he belonged there, as if he could walk in on them anytime he wanted. They were his, or so he acted.

Then Locke told Claire to leave, that he wanted to talk to Kate alone. Kate noted that Claire headed for Kate's bedroom instead of her own. Claire was probably standing right inside Kate's bedroom door with her ear pressed up against the corner nearest to the living room. That's where Kate herself would have hidden, had she wanted to spy. The house walls were so thin they might as well have been cardboard, and that bedroom was closest to the living room. Claire had just better not let Locke hear her breathing. Locke seemed to have forgotten about Claire, though, as he delivered his ultimatum. Kate wasn't welcome in his camp anymore. She was to leave at first light.

After Locke left, Claire sank down next to Kate on the dark French grey sofa. "So, he's going to banish you? For just talking to Miles?"

It wasn't until Locke left that Kate realized how hard she was shaking. "Claire, he's crazy. How long before he goes all Jim Jones on us?"

Claire apparently hadn't heard of the American mass murderer who led his cult followers into the Central American jungle and then convinced them all to drink cyanide-laced Kool-Aid. "Jim Jones?"

"Never mind. It would only give you nightmares. It's bad enough right now."

Claire gestured towards the door, where Locke's shadow still cast a pall over the room. "What are you going to do? I don't want you to leave."

Kate sat for a moment, thinking. "I'm going to go back over and talk to Sawyer."

"Yeah, good idea," Claire answered, but her face said otherwise. Kate still remained on the sofa, chin in hand, twisting the tail of her shirt. To Claire, though, Kate had already left, abandoning her and Aaron to this rickety wooden house, a small one among many, clustered at the bottom of a great inactive volcano. Although something here was probably going to explode anyway, and soon. Claire could feel it in the air, gathering like a storm. "Guess I'll just go to bed then, right?"

A swift resolution flew across Kate's face. "Don't do that yet."

"You're going to spend the night over there, aren't you?"

Kate nodded. "I hope so. Just keep the lights on. And don't go to bed just yet."

"Well, there are those old sheets we found, the ones with all the holes. I could turn those into nappies."

"Yeah, that's great. And don't be like me, and forget to lock the door." Kate gave Claire a quick hug before she slipped out into the night, then headed across the common yard to the house shared by Hugo and Sawyer.

Kate could hear the loud disco beat before she put the first step on Sawyer's front porch. She rapped a few times, to no avail. Then, from inside, Sawyer shouted, "Turn that goddamn thing down, all right?"

She knocked again, harder this time. Inside, something rustled; the blaring music's volume lowered, and ponderous footsteps moved towards the door. That must be Hurley. He opened it, and across his broad features flickered a brief disappointment. It wasn't that he was unhappy to see Kate. In fact, he broke into a warm smile and stepped aside to let her in, after checking once or twice behind her to see if she was alone. The smile was different, that was all. He had been expecting someone else.

"Hey, Kate. Second time's a charm."

"Hi, Hurley." The tone in her voice made his smile fade. She gave the house a quick scan, taking in the paused VHS tape jittering like her heart, the beef jerky wrappers scattered around the coffee table, a copy of Stephen King's _Carrie_ lying half-open on its side. She pointed to the book. "That's heavy bedtime reading."

Hugo shuffled, looking a little embarrassed. "You want to sit down? There's some more beef jerky in the kitchen." He started to move across the room, but she put her hand on his arm, stopping him.

"Where's Sawyer?" she said, keeping her voice deliberately low.

"In his bedroom, with the door shut. He says disco sucks," and Hugo gestured towards the television. "Is, uh, this gonna bother you two? I just started it."

_Xanadu_, the tape case said. "Bother us?" Then she knew at once what he meant. Against her will, her face reddened. She hated how easily she flushed, but couldn't do a thing about it, and her stiff tones made her sound more like her mother than she liked. "No, listen," she said, keeping her hand on him. Hugo's face went blank, and Kate knew him well enough to know he was upset. _Relax_, she told herself. _Keep your head_. She forced a friendly smile. "You know, maybe I will have some of that beef jerky. And turn the tape back on."

Disco faded into the swing jazz of a 1940s-era big band, topped by the puckish roving melody of a solo clarinet.

"That's better," Sawyer bellowed from the bedroom.

Hugo virtually raced into the kitchen ahead of her, and handed her a small cellophane packet with its white octagonal label, barely before she had time to think of what to say. "Locke barged in on us," she said quietly, opening the wrapper but not eating any of it. "He walked right in as if he owned the place."

"No way," Hugo said in a mild voice, although the set of his shoulders was anything but calm.

"You know, uh, when I tricked you into telling me where Miles was?"

"Yeah, that was slick," and there was real regret in his voice.

"I'm sorry. But I had to talk to Miles. And Locke wasn't going to let me do it any other way."

"Did you get anything out of him?"

"Just bad karma, from scooby-doobying you." Kate thought for a second about telling him the whole thing, how she had untied Miles, gave him exactly one minute to talk with Benjamin Linus languishing in a cell in the basement of his own house, now John Locke's. About how Miles had told her in return that for her there would be no easy rescue, because the men on the approaching freighter knew who she was, knew about her criminal past. Everyone did, it seemed, and all at once the the hymn from the Methodist church of her childhood came back to her, the one whose refrain went, "No hiding place down here." But there wasn't time. "It was kind of a waste. An expensive one, though. 'Cause Locke banished me."

"He what?" Hugo said, raising his voice.

Just what she needed right now, for Sawyer to come bursting out of the bedroom. She motioned for him to quiet down. "Locke caught me, Hurley. No, it wasn't your fault, and no, I didn't tell him how I found out where Miles was."

Hugo looked away, crestfallen, and Kate saw at once that he was ashamed. Then he said, "So where's Claire now, and Aaron?"

"They're still at the house. That's what I wanted to talk to you about."

He loomed massive and out of place in the small, overly feminine kitchen with its blue and white Italian china, and pink floral paintings. When the knock on his door had come, Hugo's heart had leapt at the possibility that it might have been Claire. Maybe she had left the baby with that Sylvie chick, the one with the funny hat that looked like mouse ears. Maybe he and Claire could hang out. But instead it was Kate, here to see Sawyer. Of course. "You gonna eat that?" he asked, pointing to the jerky which she had set down on the kitchen counter.

She shook her head, and deliberately didn't look when he picked it up and started to chew. Like pretty much everyone at their old oceanside camp, she had overheard more than one low-pitched but emotionally-laden conversation between Libby Smith and Hugo, as Libby had counseled him in her smooth professional voice how much he should eat, and what kinds of foods. Everyone had watched him cringe under Libby's soft, concerned tones. Kate knew that Hugo hated to be scrutinized as he ate, so she studied the pattern on a floral teapot while he finished the little strip of meat in two bites. Then she said in an offhand, casual voice, "You know that movie you were watching? _Xanadu_?"

"Yeah. The other one was a slasher, and _Carrie_ was getting kinda depressing."

"I've seen _Xanadu," _she lied._ "_It's pretty good." She took a breath, hoping that she would say the right thing, that Hugo wouldn't shrink like a turtle into his shell when she brought her idea forward. "You know the actress? Olivia Newton-John?"

"The blonde?"

"Did you know she was an Aussie? Well, sort of." A big sort-of, Kate thought, but now she had Hugo's attention, and she pressed on. "Maybe, you know, Claire might like to see it."

"Yeah, maybe," Hugo said, eyes bright with interest now.

"Since you just started it. We have a VHS, too."

"Pretty much everybody does," Hugo remarked, trying to sound casual and failing. "When Sawyer and I went around, we checked."

Even in Iowa, you heard jokes about Missouri mules, and Kate was convinced that one was right here in front of her, in this kitchen. "Hurley, listen. Locke might come back. I think it would be better if you went over. At least for a little while. Because I'm going to stay here. For awhile."

Three or four strains of thought crossed his face. "Isn't it kinda late?"

Kate still wasn't used to keeping time, after months of watching the sun. She had to glance at the ornate iron-work clock-face before saying, "It's not even nine."

"You, uh, think she'd be cool with that?"

"Hurley, she would be cool with that." At least she hoped that was true. Since the day before, Claire had seemed happier than Kate had seen her in a long time, not ecstatic or jumping up and down, but radiating a quiet and calm sense of peace. It was as if something deep inside her had worked its way to the surface, so that she could take it up into her hands, turn it over multiple times for examination, then lay it to rest for good, satisfied. Claire didn't talk about Charlie, or how their camp had split into two factions, John Locke's at the Barracks and Jack Shephard's at the beach. Instead, she threw herself into a flurry of activity around their little house in the middle of the leaf-blown, abandoned Dharma camp, as if her spirit as well as her hands craved the work. She had already washed their sheets and Aaron's diapers, dug some fine fat potatoes out of the garden behind the house, and had even talked about lashing together a rickety wooden chicken run for some of the hens which darted here and there, loose in the compound. In short, Claire gave the impression of someone settling in for the long haul.

Also, Kate had noticed the quiet moment when, earlier that day, Claire and Hugo had made small talk under the spreading beeches and tall cedars as they hung up his and Sawyer's laundry. He handed her pins, basking in her presence like a plant in the new spring sun. Or how Hugo had washed off the dust of decades from an old toy, and presented it to Claire for the baby. It was obvious that the Others had not had children in that camp for a very long time, and for a brief moment Kate wondered whether that woman Juliet had been telling the truth after all. Maybe pregnant women, some of them at least, really did die on this Island. But there was Claire, humming a little to herself as she dug in the garden, with Aaron all fat and sassy squirming in his basket. Whatever had happened to those women of the Others, it hadn't happened to Claire. Anyway, everyone knew that Juliet was a liar, and that Jack Shephard was more eager than anyone to believe her lies.

Hugo's voice brought Kate back to the moment. "What do you think Locke really wants?"

"I don't know, Hurley. But-"

"Hey," came Sawyer's voice from the bedroom. "That you, Shortcake?"

"He never quits, does he?" Hugo frowned, sensitive about Sawyer's nicknames.

It didn't seem to bother Kate, though. She tossed her head, all flirtation and mischief, saying, "I wouldn't have him any other way." Then she turned from Hugo, who was still trying to puzzle it out, and headed towards Sawyer's bedroom with a face composed and calm.

Claire sat cross-legged on the master bedroom floor, while Aaron slept on a soft, dark blue blanket, secure in his wash basket. The walls hemmed her in, and briefly she wished she could sleep outside in the copse of trees which surrounded the outer perimeter of the Barracks, where Danielle Rousseau had made solitary camp. Claire pulled herself to her feet, paced the room for awhile like a trapped animal, and then pulled the rear window curtain aside. The back bedroom faced the deep green canopy of jungle which grew up hundreds of feet alongside the edges of an old volcano. Pale moonlight barely pierced the black, but out in the darkness, framed by the window-glare of the lightened room, a tiny spark flickered. That must be Rousseau's fire. For a few seconds, Claire had a crazy urge to grab Aaron, stuff a few of the new nappies into her backpack, and go.

An indignant crowd of rational arguments rose up. What would she do in the forest with a baby? And why wouldn't Rousseau just drive her away? The wild French woman had finally gotten her reunion with her teenage daughter Alex, as well as picking up a new son too, in the form of Alex's gawky, endearing lover Karl. They were a family now, and she, Claire, would just get in the way. As she always had, from the beginning, as the child her mother hadn't planned for or wanted, but had kept anyway. Now, here she was herself, mother to a similarly unexpected child, but not unwanted anymore. Claire couldn't hear the baby's soft rapid breathing, but his little back made the blanket rise up and down with tiny movements. Claire felt as if she were connected to Aaron's small body by invisible webs. She would have known whether he was breathing or not, even without looking at him.

Although the bedrooms were stuffy, Kate and Claire kept the windows shut because the torn, rusted window screens were full of holes. If they opened the windows at night, the rooms soon filled with fluttery moths wider in wingspan than Claire's hand, their fat, furry bodies thicker than her thumb. Maybe the Others hadn't minded the bugs. Claire didn't, either, not outside at least. But in the house, their trapped beating against the walls and windowpanes filled her with anxiety. She rested her face up against the night-cooled glass, and her breath smudged the window with a foggy stain.

Kate had said not to go to bed yet, but why? The flannel sheets sat untouched in their basket, waiting to be cut up. Claire didn't blame Kate for running over to Sawyer's. Whatever daft idea Locke had, Sawyer wasn't going to let Kate go. And if Locke was stupid enough to push it, he would have a fight on his hands.

"Oh, bloody hell," Claire said under her breath, fogging the window once more. Then someone knocked on the door, and not politely or softly, either. She jumped, and her heart gave a loud hard bang. Again the wild impulse came, this time to tie the baby around herself, throw open the window, and simply disappear into the night before Locke could hammer down the front door and get to her. The bangs came again, three times, insistent.

_My God, he's going to break the damn door frame._ She tried to open the window, but either the latch was broken, or it was stuck. In movies people wrapped cloths around their fists, or tossed furniture through windows to break them, but Claire hadn't the first idea how to do that, and anyway, the glass might hit the baby. Silence came from the front of the house now. Maybe he had gone away. What was a lock on a door, when you think about it? Especially a door like the one out there, flimsy as plywood. A lock was an idea, nothing more, yet it actually seemed to work. She opened the bedroom door and poked her head out, tentative.

Another bang came, and she ducked back into the bedroom, afraid again. The whole front door shook and its small window-glass rattled. She took a deep breath. You can't run from him, she told herself. Unless it's to Rousseau, to beg her to take you back to the beach. Because you certainly can't find your way there yourself, and it was a long enough trek up here as it was. But you can face him. He couldn't be enough of a monster to hurt you, could he? Not with the baby, surely. She was just about to walk across the living room when another bang came, this time followed by a voice.

"Claire?" Hugo called out from the front porch. "Are you in there? Are you OK?"

The shock almost sent her to her knees, and at first she couldn't speak because she was too busy taking one gulping breath after another, only now aware of how long she'd been holding her breath. Trying to keep the laughter and relief out of her voice, she called out, "Yeah, Hurley, I'm here. Just a sec."

When Claire came to the door, Hugo noticed that she looked paler than usual, with her hair mussed and with a faint blue smudge of shadow under her eyes, where the skin was thinnest and most tender. "Quick, get in before the moths," she said, pulling him in, and he had to squeeze through the narrow opening to avoid shoving her into the wall. He pushed the door shut behind him and made sure to turn the lock. As if on its own accord, the VHS tape flew out of his hand, hit the floor with a soft clatter, and the clamshell case sprang open. She didn't move to pick it up, and so he bent over to retrieve it, and handed it to her as if it were a present.

"What's this?" she said.

"I watched the first fifteen minutes. Then Kate came over. And she, uh, and I thought, well, maybe. If you haven't already seen it, I mean."

His heart sank when she didn't say anything at first, and he fought down a tiny pang of despair that pressed right under the breastbone. Claire was turning the case over with a curious expression. When she made a small noise of surprise, he leaned over to get a peek for himself. On the inside of the white clamshell case was inscribed in permanent marker, "To Jules, from Tom."

"I think I know who Tom is," Hugo said, remembering the stocky man with the fake beard, on the Pala Ferry dock. "But who's Jules?"

Claire shrugged and rolled her eyes as if to say, They're Others, who can understand them? She closed the case and handed it back to Hugo.

"She's Australian," he said, wondering if it would help. Maybe this situation could be salvaged. Her living room was exactly the same size as his and Sawyer's, but here he felt too big, out of place, as if he might kick over a piece of furniture without even trying. She hadn't invited him to sit down, and so he stood there holding the case, trying to wipe the stupid grin off his face and failing.

"Australian?" Claire's expression softened a bit, and she almost laughed. "She's not exactly dinky-di, I'd say."

Hugo felt stupider than before, if that were even possible. "What?"

"You know, the real thing. A native. Mum, my grandparents, they go back to transport days," and she said it with pride. "Olivia Newton-John's really a Pom. Um, sorry. British."

Hugo almost said, Like Charlie, but held his tongue.

"No matter. Oz is full of people who think they're from down under, just 'cause they live there a few years. We're used to it." The bright wide smile was back. Her face didn't look so tired, nor did the shadows under her eyes look so blue.

"Yeah, L.A. is like that, too. Everybody's from somewhere else."

She sat down, and so he figured it was all right to do the same.

"You, too?" she said.

"Nah, I was born in L.A."

"Um," she said, hands on her knees.

"Where's Aaron?" he asked, unnerved by the silence and her still form.

"Oh, he's in the bedroom, sleeping. It's kind of weird, knowing he's in another room. Not being next to him, you know?"

He didn't, but he smiled just the same, and lifted the paper bag. "I brought popcorn. If you wanna watch the movie."

"I wondered what that was." The kernels inside rattled as she took the bag from him.

"I'd of made it, but there was no oil at our house. No butter, either. I think the woman whose house it was, was on a diet or something."

Claire headed for the kitchen. "Well, there's a bit of butter here. Might as well use it before it goes over. And oil, too, a whole bottle." Looking inside the bag, she saw that there were enough kernels for a double batch every night for a week. "You want me to do the honors?"

Hugo shifted a bit, embarrassed. "I'm, uh, kinda used to the microwave stuff."

"It's easy. I'll show you." He followed her into the kitchen, different from his in that there were far fewer china plates and knick-knacks. Claire poured a little oil into a big heavy saucepan, just enough to make the surface shiny and slick, then covered the bottom with kernels.

He looked in, and gave a small frown. "That's not very much." As soon as he said it, he braced for the small stiff retort, _You don't need that much popcorn anyway_, but Claire just smiled.

"You'd be surprised. A little goes a long way." The laugh in her voice wasn't directed at him. She shook the pan back and forth, hands holding the lid down in a firm grip. "We used to make this over an open fire all the time. When I went to camp."

"Camp?"

"Up by Brisbane. They have huge forests, a lot like here. Full of creepers and ferns and things."

"So, Crocodile Dundee camp, huh?"

She tossed her head and rolled her eyes at the mention of the Australian movie action hero. "Without the crocs, though. Can't have the whole Year Eight eaten on holiday, can we? Too many distressed mums."

He couldn't have found Brisbane on a map to save his neck, had no idea what a Year Eight was, or why Crocodile Dundee put that small scoff in her voice, but she was still smiling, and so he didn't care. The popcorn on the stove started to sputter, a few random bursts at first, and then a volley. Claire kept shaking the pan until the popping had mostly stopped.

"Awesome," Hugo said, and lifted the lid.

"No, wait," Claire called out, but it was too late. A few final pops sent popcorn shooting into his face, and a few of the puffy kernels stuck to his hair. "Silly, you've got to wait a moment or two till it's all done." She stood on tiptoe so as to pick off the white fluff, her face so close that he could see the pearly gold of her lashes, and smell the toothpaste-mint of her breath. Then she pulled back, and the worry started up in him again. What was he doing here, anyway? That look couldn't have meant what he thought it did. Ridiculous, right? But deep down he knew it wasn't ridiculous at all.

She waved her hand around the kitchen. "I'll go put the tape on. Maybe you can get creative and jazz up that popcorn a bit."

Hugo started the butter melting, and in the cupboard found some Parmesan cheese, and onion powder caked at the bottom of its dispenser. He stabbed it with a spoon, but it just broke into lumps, so he squashed it over the popcorn with his fingers, and threw a bit of parsley on the whole thing for good measure. The rich smell of buttered popcorn filled the small house.

When he went back into the living room, the lights were on lower than before. She had rewound the tape, which he'd forgotten to do. No wonder he struck out with women, he thought, as he set the overflowing popcorn bowl down on the coffee table between them. All of these simple things just go right by you, but they're important. There are so many, how do you even know where to start? But Claire didn't seem to care. She sat on the other side of the couch, not too far away, leaving a space the size of a small child between them.

"Ready?" she said, controller in hand.

Hugo didn't pay that much attention to the movie at first. Sure, the girls' legs looked great, and Olivia Newton-John's magical girl Kira skated like a graceful fish sliding through water. Her long, lithe body reminded him of Claire's. Things got psychedelic pretty fast, though.

Once Claire went to get them some water, and when she came back, she plopped down a little closer to him. Another time, she stopped the tape when he remarked that he recognized that big auditorium in the movie. "I was just a kid," he told her. "Grandpa Tito was working at these houses up by Beverly Hills, and I went along after school. To, you know, get stuff from the truck for him, things like that. It was late, and we were finishing up. All of a sudden the whole sky filled up with this black smoke. There were so many sirens, it sounded like the Martians were landing." Hugo and his grandfather had stood on the hillside which overlooked the L.A. basin, watching the thick red-black column grow larger and larger, until the sun finally went down, and nothing but a yellow and red glow remained. Might as well wait, Grandpa Tito had said. There would be no getting through that traffic, as it was. So they sat down on the coarse sedge grass, and the owner of the house came out to sit with them. So much black smoke filled the sky that the stars couldn't be seen. "I wanted to drive over there and look. Hey, I was just a dumb kid."

"Was anybody hurt?"

"I dunno. It was probably empty."

"That's sad. Such a pretty building." She snuggled a bit closer as she started the tape up again. He wanted to put his arm around her very badly, but argued with himself so much over whether he should or not, that he sat stiff and unmoving. When Kira's father Zeus told her that she couldn't stay with Sonny, but could have one last evening with him, her deep sigh resonated all through Hugo's own body, but he was afraid to look over at Claire, for fear she would move away.

Then it was over. Because the music was so awesome, they watched the credits anyway until the screen turned blue. Then they turned to each other, and as if reading each other's thoughts, both said at once, "Did you -" and "I don't -" and "What just happened there?"

"Didn't Kira just, uh, beam up to the mother ship or something?" Hugo said, still confused. "So how could she -"

"Weird," Claire answered. "Because the waitress. That was her, right? But I thought she couldn't stay with Sonny."

"Well, maybe she broke the rules."

"What rules?"

"Remember that song, where they were in disco Mt. Olympus? Her mom said something about breaking the rules."

Claire frowned, still trying to piece it together. "I thought that was supposed to be just for one night. But then again, her mum and dad didn't have much of a sense of time, did they?"

Hugo shrugged, trying to hide his embarrassment. "Sorry it was so dumb."

"Dumb?" Claire said, a little surprised. "I loved it."

"You did?" He was genuinely surprised himself, as well as relieved.

"Sure. Yeah, I know it was crazy. Like that cowboy bit, where did that come from? But Sonny was so sweet. And I'm glad they got to be together in the end." She reached for the popcorn bowl, so that the space between them shrank to nothing. "Nothing but old maids left," she remarked as she dug around in the remains of the popcorn. "It was a real feast. Delicious."

"I could make some more," he offered.

"I'm full." She picked up the controller, but the fast-rewind button didn't work. "Maybe the button on the front will do it." She glided across the room, while something inside told him that she wouldn't be back to snuggle up close on the couch like before. "There," she said, manually rewinding the tape. "Things around here are kind of broken."

She stood by the television for a moment, still fiddling with it. Then she said in a quiet voice, "You know, this movie. It's a lot like us."

Something leaped up inside him. Had she really said that, or was it just what he wanted to hear? "Us?" he said, mouth dry.

"Yeah, you know. How all kinds of weird stuff keeps happening in the movie, for no reason. One strange thing after another. Nobody ever wants an explanation. By the end, it's so wacky, and nobody even notices. Like crazy has become the new normal. It's like that for all of us, on this island."

"Right," he answered, fighting hard against the crushing disappointment.

"Like when the television starts talking to Sonny. You think he'd scream and run out of there. But he doesn't."

Hugo's mind raced on a steeplechase which cascaded over hills and downs. He hated it when that happened, because he usually ended up someplace he didn't want to go. Afraid that if he said too much, all his too-close familiarity with delusion would come out, he said in a hesitant voice, "Maybe when things get just a little bit trippy, you freak out. But then when things get so freaky -"

"Yes," she interrupted. "You just learn to live with it. Like, how weird is it that we're sitting here in a house, with electricity, eating popcorn, watching television?"

He didn't want to say it, didn't want to allude to it in the slightest, but it bubbled out anyway. "Hey, Claire." His rough low voice made her turn around to look at him with surprise. "Did you ever feel, uh, that you were in a play? You know, on-stage? That things just weren't, um, what they seemed?"

He knew it must have sounded like babble to her when she said in a tentative voice, "Uh, no. Not really. Not unless I was in one." Instead of coming back to the couch, she grabbed the popcorn bowl and their the water glasses, and said in a distracted voice, "No use leaving this about."

He thought of following her into the kitchen, but just sat for a few seconds, hoping he could recover from this without sounding like a lunatic. The voices inside started up again, not really audible, just at the level of thoughts, but once they got going they were impossible to shut up. _You sound like a lunatic_, he repeated to himself, _because you are. If you tell her now, she'll throw you out. Just like you punted when you told Libby that stupid story about breaking your hip. That was rich. You saw Libby's face, dumb-ass. She didn't believe you for a minute. _

_I'll tell her, _Hugo argued back._ Just not right now. Not tonight. Tomorrow, or the day after. By next week at the latest. Because we'll probably be here for awhile. Those guys on the boat, the Not-Penny's-Boat, they'll come and get what they __want, then go. After all, that's what we're doing here, right? Hiding from rescue? __Let things go on slowly, one day at a time. In a few days I'll tell her. After all, we have time_. But all he could say when he went into the kitchen was, "So, you were in plays?"

She brightened up as she ran the water in the kitchen sink, although her tone was apologetic. "Just supporting roles in community theater. Not the big time." Then, with only a trace of defensiveness, "It's where I met Thomas. Aaron's father." She had never mentioned him before, not to anyone as far as he knew, and another pang went through Hugo, different than the fear that she wouldn't like him, or would find him ridiculous, or that sometime soon he was going to have to tell her about his hospitalization. It almost killed Hugo to bring it up, but he had to, because while it might not have mattered to Charlie, it did to him. "Was Thomas ... do you think he's, you know, are you still-" He couldn't finish the question, as much as he tried.

"He threw me out." The sharp knife-edge in her voice startled him. "I never saw him again, if that's what you mean."

"I'm sorry," he said, and then was sorrier that he'd brought it up, because the look she turned on him was pure, blue arctic ice.

"I'm not."

Hugo turned half-away, sure that the evening was over, not wanting to step in any deeper. "You know, maybe I should-"

She touched his arm then, in the same spot, and in the same way Kate did so often, but her touch was nothing like Kate's. The electric thrill went up and down the whole side of his body and he stood riveted by her grip. Even though her grasp was gentle, he couldn't have moved if he tried.

"No, please. I'm just touchy about it, you know?" She gazed down at the beige linoleum floor, not meeting Hugo's eyes any longer

It would have been so easy for Hugo to take her small pointed face in his hand and raise it a bit, or brush the long bangs away from her eyes. But at that moment a thin wail rose from the bedroom, which, when wasn't answered, resolved into a lusty cry.

"I'll get him," she said, leaving Hugo in the kitchen.

When Claire came back a moment later, Hugo had already cleared away the remaining dishes. Baby Aaron, red-faced from his squall, gave a little pout and squirmed in her arms. Claire began to dab cool water from the tap over his head.

"Does he have a fever?" Hugo asked.

Her voice had an edge of panic. "The room was stifling. I couldn't open the window before, but I shut the door anyway, so the telly wouldn't disturb him, and now look." She was almost in tears. "He could have heat stroke."

Hugo bent down to look at the child, who grabbed a long lock of hair and gave it a swift yank. "Yow," Hugo said, and the baby yanked again, this time with a smile. "I think he's OK."

Claire headed for the living room, still patting Aaron's forehead with the damp cloth. "I'm going to nurse him."

"Do you want me to, uh -"

"Why? Oh, wait a minute. Don't tell me you're one of those cover-it-up types."

"Uh, I just thought." He had always been careful not to stare at her when she nursed Aaron.

"You can keep me company. He's getting to the point where it's just as much for fun as for milk."

Hugo was powerless to stop the blush which covered his cheeks. Every possible reply would be completely misunderstood, so he didn't bother. He remembered that she had always had a water bottle nearby while she nursed, so in red-faced confusion he went to the kitchen to fill a glass. Claire settled herself on the couch, propped Aaron up with a pillow, and pulled up her t-shirt, apparently oblivious to the reaction she was inspiring.

"I'm going to get spoiled," she called to him from the living room. "I almost can't believe I did this on the ground, or under a tarp. It seems like another life." She drank down the glass which he brought her, and he went back to get her another one. He tried to imagine what it was like to be tied to another being that way, bound by a web of love and desire and obligation. It seemed terrifying. But it seemed like heaven, too. Like Xanadu, beautiful and unobtainable, yet right over the horizon. Right through the door, or on the other side of that magic wall which parted to let you in, but only if you were ready. Only if you knew where to look.

They sat together in the small room with its earthy-grey furniture, its rough clay pots and stark checkerboard carpet. The house's military-base design seemed so ordinary. You might think you could just drive down to the Quik-Snak on Alameda Boulevard for a Mr. Icee Berry slush, the kind which left your whole mouth ringed with zombie blue. But instead here they were, sitting in the middle of nowhere, and even though someone very dedicated was looking for them, someone who might even be quite nearby, neither of them were in any hurry to be found.

Hugo tried not to stare at Claire's round pale breast, or the rose-tipped nipple which peeked out as she changed Aaron from one side to the other. It seemed weirder to look away, though, and so he kept his eyes on her face as much as he could, until the soft white hills below her slim neck didn't seem so frightening and enthralling. As he relaxed, his desire no longer twisted at him. Instead, he basked in the delight of mother and child together. She played with the baby's feet as he suckled, and Aaron reached up to touch her face, or tugged gently at her hair. It was like watching a conversation made of song or dance, where even if you didn't understand the language, you could figure out everything being said. Claire's face softened with pleasure, and Hugo could have sat there for hours, silent because the scene called for no words.

Then Aaron's eyelids began to droop, and even though the baby forced them open, the heavy lids fell again. "He's slowing down," Claire remarked. Hugo barely heard her, though. A sharp sense nagged him like the rough, unwelcome hand which shakes your shoulder at six in the morning, when you have to be up for that early shift that nobody wants. The living room curtains were wide open, but reflected light filled the windows so that nothing outside could be seen. Someone was looking in, though. Hugo was sure of it, even though no steps echoed on the wooden porch. Then the sense vanished as quickly as it had come. He tried to relax his shoulders, taking deep breaths.

The baby had finished, and let the breast fall from his mouth. "You OK, Hurley?" Claire said, her attention turned back to him. "You look like a goose just walked over your grave."

"Nothing." Again he fought the urge to tell her everything, just to get it off his chest once and for all, because she would either understand, or she would never speak to him again. Hugo remembered Claire yelling out that she didn't want any liars or druggies around her baby, and nobody on the beach could miss that. Why wouldn't she feel the same way about crazy people? True, it wasn't like he had heard or seen anything recently. Not much, anyway. Just a few weeks ago, before Libby got killed. But there was that weird walk back to the beach from Pala Ferry, though. And the dreams. At least he hoped they were dreams, because if not- "It's nothing," he repeated. "I think my stomach's just not used to popcorn, is all."

"I could make you some mint tea. There's a big patch of it behind the house, in that wild, grown-over garden." She handed him the baby. "Here, take Aaron. He needs to be upright for a bit anyway, before I lay him down again."

Hugo hoisted the limp, half-asleep baby onto his shoulder. Aaron woke up a bit, and started to play with Hugo's hair, but not as gently as he had pulled on Claire's. The baby shoved a few locks into his mouth, chewing on them. Hugo tried to pull the baby away, but Aaron hung on, starting to whimper.

"Just pat him a bit on the back," Claire said, as she crushed mint leaves into a teapot. "He probably has a little bubble."

A few light pats did nothing, and Aaron continued to fuss. Finally Claire said, "He's not going to break. Give him a thump."

Hugo tapped the baby a little harder, not much. Then he must have hit the jackpot, because Aaron let out a resounding belch. Warm stickiness covered the left side of Hugo's hair and ran down his neck. A dark wet stain spread across the front of his maroon t-shirt. The burp smelled like yogurt, but more sour.

"Oh, brother," Hugo said. "He nailed me good."

The baby started to crow, very pleased with himself.

"You little monkey, come here." As Claire reached for Aaron, a long strand of white goo laced its way down the front of Hugo's shirt. The wet stuff on his hair and back started to drip, warm and slimy. Claire looked between Hugo and the baby, fighting hard not to laugh. "Both of you need to be hosed down. No, I take that back, Hurley. You got it far worse." She wiped the mess off Aaron's face and chest. "Hang on. I've got to get his basket."

By the time she got back, the mess was beginning to dry and stiffen, and the sour-milk smell grew even stronger. Claire laid Aaron in the basket, in the middle of the kitchen floor. Turning to Hugo, a small smile still playing around her lips, she said, "So what are we going to do with you, then?"

"I should just go. Sorry, Claire, what a mess."

"You didn't make it. Funny, though, Aaron hasn't done that for awhile now."

"Guess he just got inspired," Hugo said in a weak voice.

"You don't have to go," she said, suddenly serious. "Unless you want to."

He could go back to his house, barge in on Sawyer and Kate, endure Sawyer's jibes, take a shower, go to bed clean and fresh-smelling. Or he could stay here, soaked and smelly, which didn't seem to faze her at all. Actually, he'd rather be coated in mud head to toe and dipped in dung besides, if being clean meant he'd have to be away from her. "I'll go outside and use the hose," he offered.

"Not in the dark you won't. It's around the side, and the outside light's busted."

"Man, does it always smell like this?"

"Silly, it's just milk. I'd offer you a shower, but that's out of commission, too. Tub only, and it takes forever to fill. Look, it's simple. Just take off your shirt. We'll get your hair first, and the shirt later."

He stood staring, hardly believing what he just heard. The last woman to tell him to take off his clothes had been a middle-aged psychic in a rundown palmistry studio on the low-rent edge of Beverly Hills. David Reyes had put her up to it, it had turned out. In the frozen silence of the drive home, his dad had defended himself. There was nothing wrong with an older woman showing an inexperienced guy how to be a man. Hugo was crazy not to take her up on it. Then David looked over at Hugo's face, and had swiftly shut up. At the time, Hugo didn't know what was more appalling, that his father would do something like that, or that it took over a thousand dollars to convince a woman, even one as old and homely as the psychic, to sleep with him. It wasn't until weeks later that Hugo wondered how his father had even known that the woman was for sale in the first place.

Hugo still burned from the embarrassment. But there was nothing like that in Claire's tone. Still, he didn't want to. Even when he swam he left his shirt on. No matter how hot it got, no matter how hard he worked at digging or lifting logs, no matter if practically every other man on the beach went bare-chested in the tropical sun, Hugo stayed covered up. It was only when he crept off to the secret pool halfway to the edge of the Dark Territory, the one no one else knew anything about, that he undressed fully and bathed. Even then, he never lost the sense of being watched, never could put aside the fear that someone would surprise him, to point and laugh and mock.

Claire looked quiet and thoughtful, as if she sensed his discomfort. "It's just bodies, Hurley. It's nature."

"Yeah, I know, but -"

"Hurley, I've been to the beaches in Sydney, the ones where people don't wear bathers, you know?"

"You mean, no swim suit?"

"That's right."

"Yeah, the Mr. Atlases and the super-models, I bet."

"You'd be surprised." A sharp and critical expression darted across her face, but it wasn't directed at him. "You wouldn't be the largest man I've seen."

"What the hell," he muttered, mostly to himself, as he raised his sodden t-shirt.

She took over, and gently pulled it off him, careful not to scrape his skin with her nails. "Let me tell you a story about that. Thomas and I, there we were at the beach in Sydney. It was hotter than hot, thirty five, thirty eight degrees maybe." She didn't catch his puzzled expression at her use of Centigrade, just tugged the rest of the shirt off him, and draped it over the kitchen chair. Then she ran the water in the sink, testing it with her hand to see when it got warm. "There was this big group of Japanese blokes, the wrestlers, you know? And girls, they had all these girls with them. Mostly Japanese, but some Aussies, too." She guided Hugo's head under the sink, and she could have led him anywhere, as he was putty in her hands. The water ran over his sticky hair while she leaned forward to reach over his broad shoulders. Her soft breasts pressed up against him, and he almost stopped listening, but pulled himself together.

"Anyway," she went on, still rinsing, "there were three of these guys all sunbathing, all starkers. They'd make you look small, Hurley. Then there were four or so of the younger guys, not so big. I guess they have to grow into their full stature, or something. But they were all chilling with the girls and their mates, talking to each other in Japanese or once in awhile in English. Then one of the big wrestlers, he went off to buy a shave ice. That's when these yobs came up, surfer types, and started giving the big Japanese guy a hard time."

She poured a few drops of dish soap from the sink into her hands, and worked it into Hugo's wet hair with her surprisingly strong fingers, still leaning up against him. "Well, I don't want to repeat what they said. It was ugly, though. Then a couple of the younger wrestlers came up, and we thought there'd be a bust-up fight. The meanest yob squared off with one of the young wrestlers, trying to get him to fight. The big wrestler just stood behind them with arms folded, not saying a word. A few beach cops watched the show too, but didn't make a move. Finally the jackass lunged at the Japanese guy."

"Bet he used some kind of kung-fu on him, right?"

Rinsing out soap, she laughed. "Nope, just gave him one good right cross to the chops. The yob went down, and his mates grabbed him, got out of there. The Japanese went back to their blankets like nothing happened. A couple people clapped and cheered. Me included." She pulled Hugo up and out from under the water, wrapping a bath sheet around his head and shoulders. As she dried off his chest, she went on in a conversational tone, "The next day we overheard that the Aussie's jaw was broken. Everybody thought he got what he deserved. OK, bend down, so I can reach your head."

She rubbed his head all over with the towel, and when she was done, he couldn't fool himself any more. She wasn't just being nice. She was enjoying this. And she kept glancing at his body, over his chest and down the wide curve of his stomach. But then, because he had caught her looking at him, she turned away abruptly, grabbed the dirty t-shirt, and started washing it in the sink. He toweled his masses of wet hair, and gave a little sigh.

She set the wrung-out t-shirt on the counter-top. "What's wrong?"

"It's just that, uh, if I don't comb it, well, it turns to dreads."

"I've got just the thing," she said before heading out of the room. From his basket, Aaron watched Hugo and played with his own toes, trying to jam them into his mouth. Claire returned a moment later with a dry towel. After draping it around his shoulders like a mantle, she gestured to one of the kitchen chairs paired around the small metal-legged table. "Here, I'll give you a combing-out."

So Hugo balanced himself on the narrow stainless steel chair, with the baby in his basket at his feet. With a wide, wooden-toothed comb, Claire picked gently through Hugo's long hair, arranging the locks one by one without pulling or snagging. She rubbed a little hand lotion between her palms and stroked it over his hair, working it in to soften it, massaging a bit into his scalp, too. He leaned back, eyes closed, just letting the soft breeze from the open kitchen window and her cool, soothing hands play over his head. Then, too soon, she was done.

"That's nice," he said. "Way better than fingers. Which is what I been using."

"There's an extra comb like it in the bathroom. You can have it."

"Thanks, Claire. But I guess I ought to be getting back." He waited, wondering if she would say otherwise, hoping for what, he couldn't even admit to himself. If he did stay, well, he knew where he wanted that to go. But something held him back, a sense that it wasn't time. Not now. Not yet.

"Right. I guess you should." Claire didn't sound sad, or glad. She just looked down at the baby. Then she turned to Hugo and said, "Why should you? Kate's not going to be back tonight anyway."

A hope leapt in Hugo's chest, squashed almost at once by an even stronger sense of responsibility. "Well, she might. You never know."

"I could put some blankets out for you, on the couch. And leave a note for her, so she won't freak out if she comes in and sees you."

"That way my shirt could dry."

"You could hang it out on the line. This breeze keeps up, it'll be dry by morning."

"I don't want to, uh, get in the way. I mean, you got your hands full here." He looked down at the baby because he didn't want her to see the naked hope in his eyes.

She smiled in the dim yellow kitchen light. "More hands, lighter work."

"As long as its, like, no trouble."

"Believe me, Hurley. It's not."

The porch light went on, and the front door to Claire's house opened. Claire's house, it was now and would so be for the rest of its short life, because Kate would never again sleep there, until that time when a whizzing shell would blow it to pieces with Claire inside. Carrying the wet shirt, Hugo made his way to the clothesline, fumbling for the wooden pins in the dark. He didn't see the shadowy figure of the man who watched him intently from the shadows, half-hiding behind a clump of beech trees. Nor did Hugo see the glint of hatred in John Locke's eyes, nor the clenched set of his jaw.

A bird chirped directly overhead, almost mocking. In its wake rose a faint feathery rustle, too light to be wind, too quiet to be heard except within the dim recesses of the heart.

"Disgusting," Locke whispered as he watched Hugo, although the words weren't entirely his own. He could barely discern anymore which thoughts were his and which came from that inner presence which he called "the voice of the Island." Now, though, he tried to puzzle out how this situation had come about without him even seeing it. Hugo and Claire, how impossible. Ridiculous, even. And she had seemed like such a nice girl, too, devoted to Charlie Pace, even though that sullen little lout hadn't been worth it. Not that he, John Locke, could be worth it either.

More faint echoes of that inner voice formed in his mind. At first Locke didn't know what _Perhaps she sails_ _with the sisters of Lesbos _meant. Lesbos? Lesbian? Then he got it. What else did it imply when a woman picked a man whose breasts were bigger than her own? "Well, that explains a lot," Locke dryly whispered to himself.

A response snickered in Locke's mind, unpleasant like the too-close buzz of an insinuating, suggesting wasp. _You watch, but do not act. If you want the woman, take her._

Locke said nothing. Amazing, how the Island seemed to know so much about him, but not everything. And especially not that. "All in good time," Locke whispered, to no one in particular. Like a bolt out of nowhere, the old bitterness hit again, because the front door opened to reveal Claire standing in the doorway, framed by an aureole of yellow light. Her smile hurt because it wasn't directed at him. Hugo thumped up onto the porch, where he and Claire stood talking in the fresh night breeze, while scraps of words not his own flew through John Locke's mind. _She's fair_, flashed one phrase, with the taste of golden hair about it, of pearly-pale skin and delicate beauty. _Her hips have been duly tried_ flickered by, too, and he puzzled that one out for a second before blushing red in the dark. Some jerk running around in Australia had a son, one he neither knew nor cared about, and good men like him, John Locke, men who respected women when they didn't act like tramps, well, he went without. _She could bear for you_, came the final thought unbidden, which made Locke clench his jaw even harder.

Locke stopped himself at once. One thing you could say about anger management classes was that they sure taught you how to loosen that jaw. The last thing he needed was a cracked tooth. The Island could do a lot; that he was even walking around was proof of that. But fixing a tooth, well, the only dentist was down at the beach camp on the other side of the Island. While Locke didn't think Bernard Nadler would refuse help even to the likes of him, his wife Rose was another story. When the two groups had parted ways at what remained of Oceanic 815's fuselage, Rose had looked right through him with icy hatred and contempt. _It's almost as if she knew,_ Locke thought.

Rose had been healed by the Island, too. Locke had been, too, but not completely. Yes, he could walk, which was a miracle in and of itself. Other things had been set right, too, small things, each one of which by itself wasn't all that serious. But time and age took a toll on a body, and each new ache, each minor infirmity arrived to stay, never to depart, until each day was made up of a whole host of tiny pains, each more annoying and ultimately depressing than the last.

Those pains, though, had mostly vanished. The throbbing around his old scar, the sluggish digestion, the pounding morning headaches, all gone. All except for one affliction, the one that had arrived with his paralysis. The rehabilitation center doctor had told him the news in tones of syrupy, professional kindness. Sometimes it wasn't permanent. Sometimes function did return. If not, there were methods. Surgery. Devices. That was when Locke had started to shout, and his angry cries had driven the doctor out of the room.

Shortly after the crash, as soon as Locke could be decently alone, he had found a shadowed place deep in the forest. There, observed only by the mocking birds, he had called forth every memory, every fantasy, every image from every pornographic movie, every lewd conversation he'd had on multiple 1-900 calls. Nothing happened. Nothing. He had chalked it up to anxiety over the crash, and the odd sense of not being completely alone. Then he had tried again when he went to live down in the Swan Station, but nothing ever happened, not even in the morning before he rose to make water. Not even in sleep, or dreams. He was dead down there, as dead and paralyzed as his legs had been.

So on that day a month or so ago, when Claire in a timid but friendly voice had asked Locke if she and the baby could sleep down in the Swan Hatch with him, he had frozen in panic, and fumbled for some hasty excuse. No, he had said, it was noisy. There was an alarm. It might wake the baby. But that wasn't it at all. What terrified him more than anything was the look he anticipated on her face if she were to slide into his bunk one night, as he knew she would, and find him not to be a man at all. He had watched the women survivors who clustered at the beach, how they sat in groups and talked while they worked, their voices rising and falling like the calls of birds. How could women talk so much? What could they possibly have to say? The women chirped merrily until Locke, or Charlie, or James would walk by, and then they fell silent until the man in question had passed, but soon the prattle picked up again. Locke had envisioned how all those chattering voices would talk about him, were they to learn of his failure. Back then he had thought, not for the first time, _I'd have to kill them_. Whoever told the secret, whoever exposed his shame. _I'll kill them all, if necessary_.

Then Claire retreated into the house, and Hugo's huge silhouette covered her as he followed, pushing the door closed behind him. The lock gave an audible click. Through the living room window, Locke could see the two of them still talking, and at one point their heads came so close they almost touched. Locke ran his hand over his own pate, wiping away clammy sweat. Shameless she was, and with a baby in the house, too. He groaned a little inside, torn between disgust and desire.

The strange presence in Locke's mind delivered its final salvo. _Your loss, _Locke heard, before the voice faded away_. _"Wait," Locke called out, aloud this time. "You said I could meet you again, at the cabin. That you would tell me what to do." But no one, nothing answered.

Overhead the birds cawed. If John Locke had not been so desperately clinging to what few rags of sanity he had left, he would have said they called out in triumph. Then the lights from inside Claire's cabin went out, plunging the whole of the Barracks into darkness. Alone in the pit of the night, John Locke stared into that black hole where Xanadu would never be.


End file.
